WyndRiver Sinner

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Long after he and Aingeal had been on the trail to WyndRiver in the Calizonia territory, Cynyr pondered on Brady’s answer. Was that all it took for a Reaper to be accepted by the Terrans? An offer of help? Showing them trust? Befriending them?

  “You’re awful quiet,” Aingeal observed. “A copper for your thoughts.”

  “I’m thinking they’re worth more than that, wench,” he said. “A helluva sight more.”

  “Come see us when you finish this last task.”

  The voice came at him in Lord Kheelan’s uncompromising manner. Of the three Shadowlords of the High Council, Kheelan was the strictest. Lords Dunham and Naois were not nearly as rigid.

  “I am due a rest,” he silently complained.

  “You can rest when your job is done,” Lord Kheelan snapped.

  “Arrogant son of a bitch,” Cynyr said under his breath.

  “Who?” Aingeal asked.

  Cynyr shook his head. He had no desire to go to the northlands where the High Council had built their fortress. He hated the mountains and the Citadel was high up the steepest kind of climb, bordered to the south by the fierce North Sea. It would take him several weeks to make the trek there and several weeks to return to Haines City. And that was if the HC didn’t have another assignment for him.

  “Bring the woman with you.”

  Those five words sent a shiver of apprehension down the Reaper’s spine. His parasite even lurched at the command. He put a hand to his kidney where the beastess had turned, pain briefly registering on his face.

  “Did you take your tenerse this morning?” Aingeal inquired.

  “That was the last of it,” he said. “I need more.”

  “Can you get it from a healer?” she asked.

  “It will be waiting in WyndRiver for you.”

  Cynyr breathed a sigh of relief. He had to have the drug every day of his life or Transition would occur out of sequence. As it was, he was only a few days from that cycle and hoped he could take out his target before it happened. He would have to find a place to sequester himself away from Aingeal, for he did not want her to see him change into the animal he was.

  “The High Council provides the drug,” he answered her. “They make it at the Citadel.”

  “I’ve heard that is a magnificent place. Have you ever been there?” she asked, and then rolled her eyes. “Well, of course you have! What a stupid question.”

  He ground his teeth. “We’ll be going there when I take care of our business in WyndRiver.”

  “Really?” she asked, her face beaming with excitement. “All the way to Boreas?”

  “Aye,” he said, somewhat mollified at her enthusiasm. As much as he hated the fortress and the things that went on there, he could content himself in knowing Aingeal would enjoy the trip.

  She looked over at him, tugging a bit too hard on her mount’s reins so that the mare nickered in protest. “Will I see other Reapers there?”

  “Why would you want to?” he asked, his voice rife with annoyance. “Isn’t one of us enough for you, wench?”

  “I’ve seen a few rogues but you’re the only Reaper I’ve ever seen.” She grinned at him. “I’d like to know if they’re all as handsome as you.”

  “Not even close,” he snorted.

  “Is minic a bhris béal duine a shorn.”

  Lord Kheelan’s Rysalian accent garbled the ancient Gaelach saying and Cynyr had to repeat the words in his own mind before he could understand them— “Many a time a man’s mouth broke his nose.”

  The warning made Cynyr smile. It had been many a year since he’d had a run-in with a fellow Reaper. The competition would do him good. He wondered if there would be others of his kind at the Citadel but didn’t want to give Lord Kheelan the satisfaction of asking.

  It was an hour or so after sunset by the time Cynyr found a suitable site for them to camp for the night. There was a stream nearby, but he refused to allow Aingeal off by herself. For some reason he felt uneasy but, though he sent out mental probes of the area, he could find no reason for his nervousness. WyndRiver was less than a day’s ride ahead of them and he was anxious to find Jaborn’s last fledgling and rid the world of the rogue.

  Moira had provided them with some of her tasty biscuits and Aingeal was relieved to find the doughy treats were nearly as fresh as the morning they’d come out of the oven. She had also given them some bacon that was very tasty. The beans were from a can but they tasted pretty good after a long day on the trail. Coffee was bubbling away over the roaring fire.

  Cynyr was stretched out on the ground on his side, his arm resting on his raised knee, watching his lady as she stirred the beans in the pot. The light cast from the fire lit her face in such a way she looked like an angel. Her hair glowed softly around her face. The sweet swell of her bosom beneath the white cotton shirt beckoned his hands to stroke her. She was, to him, the most beautiful woman in the world and his heart swelled with pride in knowing she was his.

  “You’re thinking evil thoughts again,” she said, not looking up at him.

  “Is it evil to want to make love to my woman?” he countered.

  Aingeal sighed. The morning before, she’d started her period and they hadn’t been able to indulge in the things that they had wanted to. A small part of her was disappointed when she’d seen the streak of blood on the crotch of her britches. Moira and Annie had been able to provide a few pads for her and had even given her some underwear from the general store to keep the pads in place. She had wanted to have Cynyr’s daughter or…

  “Son,” he said, and when she looked up at him, he shrugged. “It will always be a son, sweeting.”

  “Why always a son?” she asked. Not that she really cared what sex the babe was as long as it was healthy.

  “The parasite only allows male chromosomes to survive.” At Aingeal’s perplexed look he threw out his hand. “Male babies. She only allows male babies to thrive.”

  “Jealousy,” Aingeal sniffed. “Pure and simple. It’s a wonder she let you have me.”

  “She had no choice in the matter,” he said, and was rewarded by a tearing pain across his back. He tensed, trying not to show Aingeal he’d been punished for daring to say such a thing, but she’d glimpsed the discomfort passing over his face and resigned herself to say no more about it.

  “Supper’s ready,” she told him. She ladled beans onto a plate and gave him a couple of biscuits and a handful of bacon. Taking it over to him, she kissed him on top of his head then went back for her own plate.

  He waited until she was sitting beside him before digging in. They ate in silence, listening to coyotes calling in the distance and the night sounds of insects chattering in the brush.

  But Cynyr was still uneasy. He kept an eye on their surroundings, not understanding why he felt so on edge. As far as he could tell, there were no humans or rogues within probing distance of them, nor were there wolves or bears lumbering about. The smallest sound set his nerves to jangling.

  The viper struck before Cynyr had a chance to push Aingeal out of the way. Its fangs sank deep into her thigh, delivered its deadly payload then reared back to strike again. Lashing out a hand quicker than that of any human male, the Reaper grabbed the snake just under its spade-shaped head and snapped the vile thing off its thrashing body. He tossed the four-foot-long carcass aside, the head into the fire—scrambling to come to his knees beside his lady.

  “Aingeal!” he shouted, gathering her up. He propped her up against his saddle in an effort to keep the bite below her heart and reached down to rip open the leg of her jeans.

  Aingeal was already having trouble breathing, but he rationalized that was more from fear than the toxins racing through her bloodstream. The venomous snakes that had sprung up after the War were five times deadlier than their pre-war counterparts, their venom very potent. He had to stop the spread of the venom if he was going to save Aingeal’s life.

  Even through the semi-darkness of the campfire he could see the dark bruise that
had formed on Aingeal’s thigh. The fang marks were livid against the darker discoloration. Without a second thought, he bent over her, pressed his mouth to the wounds and sucked as hard as he could. He barely noticed the evil taste of the venom as he drew it into his mouth then spat it out. He was more concerned with Aingeal’s labored breathing and the strange things she was gasping. None of what she was mumbling made sense and her wheezing alarmed him. When he could taste no more of the foul protein, he stripped out of his shirt and tore it for bandages to bind the wound. He tightly tied the bandage, grabbed his gun belt, slung it over his shoulder, and then scooped Aingeal up in his arms. He ran to his horse and put her up on Storm’s back. Holding her as steadily as he could, he untied the mount and vaulted up behind her. With a shout, he kicked the horse into motion, riding hell-bent for WyndRiver.

  * * * * *

  The healer’s wife staggered back from the half-naked man standing at her door. She recognized the tattoo on the side of his face immediately and her hand went to her throat, her eyes wide as saucers.

  “She’s been bitten,” Cynyr snapped at the woman, shouldering past her with his unconscious burden. He’d ridden as fast as he could to town, Aingeal muttering gibberish and gasping for breath the entire way. She’d lapsed into silence as soon as they’d come racing past the city limits.

  “What kind of snake?” the healer asked as he came out of his dining room. He pointed to a room off to one side.

  “Mojave,” the Reaper said as he carried Aingeal into the healer’s operatory.

  “How big?”

  “Full grown,” Cynyr said as he gently laid his lady down.

  The healer examined the wound. “She didn’t hear his warning?”

  “There was no warning,” Cynyr snapped. “If there had been, I would have heard it.”

  “I don’t like her color and her pulse is much too fast,” he commented as he cleaned the wound.

  “I tried to draw out as much venom as I could.”

  The healer’s wife crept into the room, keeping her distance from the Reaper. She handed her husband fresh bandages but would not come close to the table. Cynyr didn’t even glance at her, although her fear was bombarding his senses.

  Aingeal started wheezing loudly. Her eyes flew open and she began clawing at her throat. Her face was covered with sweat, her lips swelling.

  “She can’t breathe!” Cynyr yelled, and pushed the healer aside.

  “What the hell do you think you can do?” the healer shouted at him, shoving him away. “Doris, give me a scalpel!”

  Staring wide-eyed as the healer put the blade to his lady’s throat, Cynyr wanted to grab Aingeal and run, not let him cut her, although he knew the man was trying to help. The sight of her blood as the healer made the incision made the Reaper reach out for the nearest steadying object. His knees felt weak as he watched the man put a breathing tube down her throat. But the treatment was doing no good. Aingeal was turning blue, struggling to breathe.

  “Kurt, her heartbeat is very erratic. I think she’s dying,” the healer’s wife told him. Her hand was on the inside of Aingeal’s elbow.

  “No!” Cynyr shouted. “No, hell, she isn’t!”

  The healer laid his fingers on Aingeal’s throat just below her ear. He felt no pulse. The young woman had stopped moving, as well, ceased trying to drag air into her depleted lungs. He turned his head to the Reaper.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t—”

  “No,” Cynyr said, shaking his head. He was having trouble breathing himself, dragging air in large gulps into his chest. “No, I won’t let this happen.”

  The healer and his wife exchanged a look and knew what was about to take place. Neither wanted to be a part of it. The woman was the first to flee the room, her face as pale as parchment.

  “Take the scalpel,” Cynyr said, turning his back to the healer. “Make an incision over my right kidney. Open the wound and—”

  “I won’t do that,” the healer said, backing away. “I’ve seen a man turned and I will not be a party to such evil.” He threw the scalpel down and ran.

  Cynyr didn’t hesitate for he knew the longer Aingeal lay at death’s door, the more damage was being done to her body. He stooped down, picked up the scalpel and put the blade over his kidney. Gritting his teeth, he made an incision then using his other hand reached behind him to feel inside the wound.

  The pain was almost more than he could bear and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. It was all he could do to thrust his fingers into the cut, grimacing in agony as he did.

  There was movement inside the wound and something sliced at his fingers, drawing blood. The barbed spines on the fledglings pricked his flesh but he managed to get his fingers around one and pull it from his body. Almost instantly he could feel the incision closing up on his back, the queen parasite healing his injured body, protecting Her young.

  He placed the revenant worm nestling on the table beside Aingeal. It lay there writhing, whipping back and forth, mindless with pain of its own as he flipped his lady over. The scalpel still clutched tightly in his right hand, he slit open her blouse and with one quick motion incised an opening in her back large enough for the nestling to wriggle through. Hating the feel of the evil thing, he picked it up and placed it over Aingeal’s wound. He barely had time to take a breath before the nestling dove down into the incision and disappeared. Very slowly, the incision began to heal before his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the parasite. The fledgling would do its job and his lady would come back to him.

  Knowing what he had done, shame eating at him like a rampaging shark, he lifted Aingeal in his arms and knelt down on the floor with her. His embrace was locked tightly around her—waiting for her to come gasping back to life. Tears were streaming down his face as he rocked her. One hand was smoothing her hair back from her damp face, her head hanging over his arm. He was crooning to her in the old language, his words barely audible.

  “A ghrá mo chroí,” he called her. “Mo shearc.”

  Doris Benson stood in the doorway, listening to words she had not heard since her childhood when her grandparents had spoken so lovingly to one another. “My heart’s beloved, my love,” she translated.

  “Come back to me, Aingeal,” he whispered. “Don’t leave me, my heart.”

  Aingeal’s body was still warm. She was so still, so fragile in his arms he was dying inside waiting for her to take her first breath as one of his kind.

  “Don’t leave me,” he begged. His hand was trembling as he gently touched her face. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  Despite her utter fear of the man sitting on the floor, the healer’s wife crept back into her husband’s operatory. She could not believe she was seeing this fearsome warrior, this lethal killing machine holding a woman so tenderly, tears falling as though he was a normal man. She’d seen Reapers back home in the east but never one up close as she saw this one. She could not help but wonder if his brethren had feelings such as he was exhibiting, or was this man an aberration among Reaper kind.

  There was a rogue in WyndRiver named Silus Gibbs and he was a vicious, brutal fiend who preyed on the innocent. Across the breadth of Calizonia, his kills now numbered in the hundreds and the town leaders had written the High Council, begging for help. Help had at last arrived in the form of the man sitting on the floor. He was WyndRiver’s last line of defense against the evil of Silus Gibbs.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Doris heard the Reaper say, and when he raised his eyes to her, she was shocked at the grief and misery on his handsome face. “She will Transition as soon as she wakes. You don’t want to be here for that.”

  He didn’t look a day over thirty-five, she thought, but she doubted he was anywhere near that young. His face was unlined except for the sun crinkles around his strange amber eyes and he reminded her so much of her youngest son Noah. His resemblance to her child gave Doris courage.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked, surprising he
rself at the offer.

  “Leave and lock the door behind you,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”

  Her heart went out to him. It was obvious the girl in his arms was gone. There was no movement of her chest and the blue intensity upon her lips had deepened.

  “Son, you should—”

  He felt the first faint tremor shudder through Aingeal’s body. “Go!” he yelled. “Get out of here!”

  Doris jumped, her eyes going wide as the girl’s fingers twitched and she jerked in the Reaper’s arms. The healer’s wife staggered back and slammed the door, shutting out the sight of the young woman struggling to sit up. She shot the bolt on the door and backed away from the portal, her hand across her mouth to keep from screaming.

  “Is she changing?” her husband asked from behind her and Doris spun around. The look on his wife’s face answered the healer’s question.

  “The gods help her,” the healer said.

  Aingeal’s eyes flew open and she screamed, for there was a tearing, burning agony slithering through her lower back. The pain was unbelievable and she kept screaming, trying desperately to get free of the powerful arms holding her. She bucked—she twisted. She scratched at the bare arms around her, gouging flesh, drawing blood. Her lips peeled back from her lips and she hissed. Her heels drummed against the floor all in an effort to break free.

  Cynyr could smell the Transition coming. It was a musky, animal odor that wafted up from her flesh. Aingeal’s body heat soared as he held on to her, keeping her as still as he could within the tight ring of his arms. He dared not release her as her clothing began ripping from her body.

  “I’m here, wench,” he said. “I’m here.”

  The popping, snapping, grinding of her bones, cartilage and sinews as her body began to change was a sound Cynyr would hear for the rest of his unnatural life. It underscored his guilt at being the cause of the Transference and brought exacting despair to his soul. This was not something he would have wished on his worst enemy, and yet, he had brought about the monstrous transformation all too easily. In his need to keep his lady with him, to never be apart from her, he had sentenced her to the same pervasive evil that had claimed him almost half a century before. His remorse knew no boundaries.